The Stuff Nightmares are Made of
by briroch
Summary: Sometimes you think you are alone, that nobody could possibly understand what you are going through, but you can be wrong, so wrong... Steve is dealing with the aftermath of an incident in his line of duty, the story is told from his POV.


**A****/N:**_As always, a big thank you goes to my wonderful Beta Reader Tanith, who finds time in her busy life to iron out mistakes in my stories. _

_And thank you all for reading and for reviewing, RL has been quite demanding recently, so I didn't get the time to reply individually._

_Oh, and it will be very easy for all of you to find out which episodes I am referring to!_

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters, I merely borrow them for fun, not for profit._

_**The Stuff Nightmares are made of**_

I wake up with a start, drenched in sweat, uncomfortably damp bedclothes tangled around my legs. With a shaking hand I switch on my bedside lamp and kick off the sheets with well-practised leg action. I gather them on my way to the bathroom. While I am waiting for the shower to heat up, I deposit the sheets and the sweat soaked pyjamas in the laundry basket. There will be plenty of time to wash and dry them tonight, because I know I won't be going back to sleep.

I take a long, hot shower, partly to wash away the remains of the nightmare that still holds me in its grip, partly to while away the time. I slip on sweatpants and a T-shirt, way too early to get dressed for work. I put on the first pot of coffee of the day, the first of many to keep me going. It can perk while I am downstairs in the laundry room. My neighbours are used to the cop and his crazy hours, so they will think little of the washing machine going at four in the morning.

I plod back upstairs and pour the first cup of coffee. The warmth of the coffee is comforting and in the dim light of the dawning day the dream seems to fade, but I know from experience that going back to bed is not an option- the nightmare will come back with a vengeance.

I am too wound up to sit still for long, so I check my closets if there is more stuff for another wash, but I did the laundry the night before. I wander through my tidy and sparkling clean flat. So far I always had better things to do in my sparse free time than cleaning and grocery shopping, but now my fridge is filled to the brim and wouldn't have room to put my phone in, and my place is as clean as it will ever be. I draw the line at using the vacuum cleaner in the small hours of the night, but I took out the sweeping brush one night.

Yes, I have to face it; I have run out of things to do.

After I returned from putting the sheets in the dryer, I pick up a book I have been meaning to read for ages, but I can't concentrate. When I catch myself reading the same paragraph over and over again without taking in the meaning, I pour another cup of the now cooling coffee. I know I can't go on fuelled on coffee and adrenaline for much longer. I look like death warmed over and Mike is on my case already. So far he has been quite nice about it, but more than likely the interrogation will start soon enough. I know I need help, but who will I turn to? Lenny? What can he tell me that I don't already know? I am well aware what causes the nightmare. Mike? He would be the obvious choice, of course, but I'm thirty years old! I can't go running to Mike because I have night terrors, especially, as in my dream I shoot him over and over again.

That's the point when I wake up with a scream, when my bullet hits Mike right in the chest, the crimson stain spreading way too fast. He looks at me and tries to say something, but it is too late…

I check the clock. Almost half past five, only one and a half hours left until Mike will come and pick me up. I guess I could go and bring my dried sheets up. That might keep me occupied for a while.

When I come back up, carrying my laundry basket with my carefully folded sheets, I see a familiar car parked across the road. Mike! He walks over with a wide smile, bearing a brown paper bag.

"You must have had a real laundry crisis." He remarks with feigned innocence.

I grunt noncommittally. "Is this a call out or a social call?" I ask suspiciously.

"Oh, a social call, for sure. I saw the lights on and thought I could have breakfast with my buddy boy!" He waves the brown bag in my face and follows me up the stairs.

Mike feels my coffee pot and winces. "We will definitely need a fresh pot," he suggests and looks around my immaculate kitchen.

"Have you got yourself a cleaner, or have you done some serious spring cleaning?" he goes on. "Will you make the coffee while I see what I can find in your fridge?" He whistles when he opens the refrigerator and sees what is in it.

"Is there a famine coming, or are you planning a party and have forgotten to invite me?" he jokes, but I know he is on my case.

It is just a matter of minutes now until he will pounce on his prey - me!

Thankfully he gives me a bit of breathing space. He cooks the eggs while I set the table and see to the coffee. I busy myself eating food I don't really want just to avoid talking, but I know the question is already hanging over me.

Mike puts his fork down and looks at me questioningly. "Buddy boy, what's the matter?"

I take a big bite of bagel that will require a lot of chewing. Isn't it rude to talk with your mouth full? Mike doesn't really wait for an answer but goes on.

"Don't try and fool me, you have been up for hours. You are showered and shaved, but your hair is already dry. Don't tell me you have just come in from a night out. The coffee you made earlier was cold and you have the laundry ready and dried."

Oh, the joys of working with a detective. There is nothing you can hide. Mike's eyes are fixed on me. "And this is not the first night you are up, is it? You must have spent nights doing household chores and you look like something the cat dragged in. Now, spill it. What's eating at you?"

I have seen hardened criminals fold under Mike's steely gaze and I know I will cave in soon. I look down, rubbing my neck and mumble, "I haven't been sleeping well these past few nights…"

"Tell me, when did you wake up this morning?" he probes.

"Around four, I guess." I am still stalling.

"And when did you go to bed?"

"Around midnight." I am not even lying; I just don't mention how long it takes me to fall asleep these days, out of sheer dread of having the nightmare again.

Mike reaches over the table and grabs my arm. "Are you having nightmares?"

All I can do is nod.

"Thank God that's all!" I can hear the relief in his voice, but still the remark cuts me to the bone.

Here I am, ready to bare my soul and he makes light of my nightmares.

He must have seen my reaction and pats my arm. "Oh come on, I'm just relieved that it is only nightmares and nothing worse, like a brain tumour or something like that."

Only nightmares… I lift my head and meet his eyes. They are warm and full of concern, not mocking.

"Well, buddy boy, what I meant was, not every cop has a brain tumour, but every cop has nightmares." He stops and looks at me with a puzzled expression on his face. "Hey, is this a part of your education I have neglected? Did I never tell you that you would be confronted with situations in our line of work that will wake you up in terror at night?"

I look at him blankly.

"You don't really think you are the only cop having nightmares."

To be honest, I have never given that any thought but it makes sense. I can't help asking my next question then. "You too?"

Mike chuckles. "Of course I do! How often do you think I woke up in the middle of the night because I saw you blown to pieces by the bomb those hoods put around your neck?"

He was referring to the situation when I was held hostage by a bunch of terrorists.

I swallow hard. I'm not sure if I am ready to share my story, though. But the next question is burning on my lips. "Can I ask you something? How did you deal with it?"

He looks at me and somehow I can't make out the expression on his face. Is it deep compassion? Is it sympathy? But his smile bears an edge of sadness. "Buddy boy, don't you remember all the times I rang you in the middle of the night to discuss a finer point of a case we were working on? Or all those mornings when I came to pick you up way too early?"

It is beginning to dawn on me. What I had found just annoying and exasperating at the time was Mike's need to reassure himself that I was alright and that it was only a nightmare. All I can do is nod silently.

"And you - what do you see in your dreams? Is your bullet hitting me instead of the thug?"

Again, all I can do is nod. But now I can read the expression on Mike's face, it is a deep rooted understanding, an insight only a fellow sufferer could have and I finally find my voice. "Yes, that's it."

He grabs my forearm and squeezes it reassuringly. "But your bullet hit the right man." He smiles again, this time the sadness behind the smile is even more pronounced. "Believe me, the nightmares will go away."

He watches me for a while, a real grin spreading over his face now. "Look at me, I'm fine!"

He gets up and takes the cup of coffee out of my slightly shaky hand. "You've had too much of the stuff there already. What you need is some proper sleep and not a caffeine buzz. Say, it is still early. Why don't you go back to bed for a while? Maybe the city can do without us for a few hours and we can go for a run after you got some shuteye? Blow the cobwebs out of your head?"

I know when I am beaten; I am beginning to feel quite sleepy and even a bit relaxed. I suspect that all of this was planned by Mike. Oh, Mike… I sigh with relief; it feels good that someone understands me so well. Yes, I think I can sleep now.

Mike pushes me towards my bedroom door. "You get a little snooze now and I'll hang around while you sleep. " He winks at me. "I brought some memos from work about new protocols and procedures that I need to read. If you can't drop off I will read them out to you."

Yep, it was a well-planned act, I was right there, but I don't care. All I care about now is getting some sleep, knowing that Mike is bustling next door, tidying away the breakfast dishes and muttering to himself. A very alive Mike and with that comforting thought I drift off.


End file.
